


these are the ways we say i love you

by letthesongtakeflight



Series: Something Worth Living For [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15639666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letthesongtakeflight/pseuds/letthesongtakeflight
Summary: This drabble is set in the same universe as my canon-divergent-Lexa-lives-3x07-fix-it fic, Something Worth Living For. It has a few references to events from the fic, but can be read separately.





	these are the ways we say i love you

**Author's Note:**

> This drabble is set in the same universe as my canon-divergent-Lexa-lives-3x07-fix-it fic, Something Worth Living For. It has a few references to events from the fic, but can be read separately.

You love Clarke. 

You love her in grey mornings, love tousled blonde hair and a mouth that hangs open against the pillow. Love the way her nose scrunches up when she wakes, love the eyes that remain stubbornly closed as though she can deny the dawn, can will herself back to sleep. Love kissing her with half-awake lips, love whispering _morning, ai hodness_.  

You love her in the day, love walking through the streets of your city with her by your side, love how she speaks to merchants and metalsmiths, healers and soldiers. Love the firm step of her boots on the ground, love the sparkle in blue eyes taking in the surroundings that have become her home as much as yours. Love that she's a bright star in the dreariest of meetings, love her face in profile, set jaw and straight nose and clefted chin, eyes sharp as a snap of lightning. Love the culmination of features into _her_ , love how they send a thrill through you on your throne, a jolt of electricity that grounds your spirit to Earth. 

You love her in evenings, love the body that leans into yours in warm scented baths, love rubbing soap into scalp, love lazy kisses framed by damp hair, love cleaning, healing, wandering hands touching in a platonic way, only soothing and never demanding. Love rolling your head back into the hands massaging your back, love the release of tight muscles and knotted ligaments, love the deft fingers that push and pluck the burdens from your shoulders. Love the eyelashes framed by the setting sun, love the tip of the nose silhouetted against a sky set ablaze. Love watching the sun sink below the distant mountains from the balcony, each peak ringed with solar flame, love that none is as ever-warm, ever-bright as the golden sun in your arms. 

You love her at night most of all. Love wandering touches, not-so-platonic anymore. Love the whines and sighs from chapped lips, love the eyelashes fluttering close with each worshipful kiss. Love the whisper of your name, reverent, needy. Love that the Commander of Death is at your mercy. Love surrendering in turn your own power, love the hands and lips that pay homage to you, love that you would lay bare, literally and figuratively, before no other woman. Love the face screwed up in ecstasy, love holding her as she descends from the peaks of pleasure, love the sweet nothings that fall from lips, from yours or hers it does not matter. Love feeling content and languid, satisfied to lie in her arms and hold her against you, love that nothing, not war or death or the end of the world, can take this moment away from you. Love smoothing blonde hair from pinked face, love the tenderly caressing hands that trace the shell of your ear, your cheek, your lips. Love the grin, mischievous on kiss-plumped lips, that ask if you want to go again. 

You love her in the small hours, too, privately and acutely. Love the even rise-and-fall of the body next to yours, warm in your bed, soft in your arms. Love the face, blue-tinged by midnight, serene in sleep. Love that the sun herself rests next to you, to shine when dawn comes creeping over the eastern horizon. Love the arm wrapped around your waist, the chest against your back, love being held into the shell of her body, the curve of her spine, love how safe that makes you feel. Love the stars that glitter, lonely and proud, burning impossibly far away. Love that one of them fell into your orbit, your gravity, fell into your arms. 

You love Clarke. 

You never say the words out loud. Thought them, dreamed them, whispered them to yourself in the secret places of your heart. But you never say them because you do not need to. Because you _have_ said them, a hundred times, in a hundred ways. 

They were said on your knees, your upturned face vulnerable.  _I swear a fealty to you, Clarke kom Skaikru._

They were said in a tent on the eve of battle, in the aftermath of loss, in the weakness that swam all too clearly in green eyes. _Not everyone. Not you._

They were said at the bedside of a barely-breathing girl with a bullet hole in her stomach, said clutching a cold, clammy hand in yours, feeling for the weak pulse in the wrist, the rhythm tying her spirit to her body and keeping yours from despair. _You are mine, Clarke kom Skaikru, and I swear, on my life, that I will keep you safe._

They were said when the knife against throat clattered to the ground, said to tearful blue eyes that brimmed with hatred. _I want your people to become my people._

They were said with the grounding weight of a Sky-girl in your lap, before you fought for your life and hers and the freedom of all you care for, said on your last night together, your last night before a duel to the death. _You are my people._

They were said before either of you could understand the cosmic significance behind the illusion of words. Said when you pretended you were above the most human of sentiments. Said when your hearts recognized what your heads could not. Said when you gave in to weakness and found that it makes you strong. 

These are the ways you say  _I love you._ A hundred times, a hundred different ways. A thousand more times yet to come, a thousand more ways yet to say them.


End file.
